


Fingertip distance.

by captainstars



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, oblivious Geralt, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25069837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainstars/pseuds/captainstars
Summary: People didn’t like to touch Geralt unless it was for a purpose. To hand him coin so he could deal with a couple of pesky monsters, to try and best him in a fight, or to lay with him for a night after they’ve been paid. People didn’t like touching Geralt, but Jaskier isn’t people.Jaskier touches him all the time,  when he’s drunk and trying to regain his balance, when he’s tired and needs someone to lean on, when he needs Geralt’s attention he will press his fingertips to Geralt’s elbow. And Geralt? He finds himself fixating on those fingertips.Yennefer has warned him, told him that his control wasn’t as good as he thought it was, but as Jaskier stares at him, wide eyed and open mouthed Geralt can only hide his head in shame and blame the summer heat.For all the times Jaskier might have touched him, this is the first time Geralt reciprocated.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 139
Kudos: 767
Collections: Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang





	1. Inch.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kay1vy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay1vy/gifts).



> I am forever grateful to Kayivy who was incredibly patient with me throughout this process. I am still stunned at the opportunity to work with her and I’m super excited for everyone to see the glorious art she created. I still want to cry every time I look at it because it’s so gorgeous.
> 
> Link to Kayivy's incredible art [here.](https://kayivy.tumblr.com/post/622725674379198464/for-all-the-times-jaskier-might-have-touched-him) Go scream at how absolutely amazing it is please.

_People didn’t like to touch Geralt unless it was for a purpose. To hand him coin so he could deal with a couple of pesky monsters, to try and best him in a fight, or to lay with him for a night after they’ve been paid. People didn’t like touching Geralt, but Jaskier isn’t people. Jaskier touches him all the time, when he’s drunk and trying to regain his balance, when he’s tired and needs someone to lean on, when he needs Geralt’s attention he will press his fingertips to Geralt’s elbow. And Geralt? He finds himself fixating on those fingertips. He remembers one of the women he slept with asking him once, ‘Are you starved for touch?’._

_Geralt disagrees. He is not starved. Before Jaskier human contact was just another pesky necessity washed away during ablution. Now, Jaskier is there at every corner, with a mischievous grin and those errant touches. It builds in Geralt, it builds and builds, until one day, he explodes. Yennefer has warned him, told him that his control wasn’t as good as he thought it was, but as Jaskier stares at him, wide eyed and open mouthed Geralt can only hide his head in shame and blame the summer heat._

_For all the times Jaskier might have touched him, this is the first time Geralt reciprocated._

——-

Geralt often wonders about his mother. The beautiful Visenna who loved him in the same way most of the women who graced his life loved him, a short and fleeting time that left Geralt reaching out to grasp for more only to be left empty handed. 

Geralt wonders what life would have been like if she had let him stay. Let him be a weakness she had to protect just a little longer, just another moment he would have clung onto while _the grasses_ changed him on the inside and out. During those seven days, she often visited him in his fevered dreams. Visenna had never been affectionate, but Geralt remembers the feel of her fingers brushing through his hair, the bare drag of the tips of her finger through his scalp. Visenna’s hands were as delicate and meticulous as the rest of her, and she would absentmindedly draw patterns into his scalp.

As a child, he regularly found himself scratching out the same patterns into the dirt or onto the side of a boulder with a loose piece of sharp rock. Later, when he was made to pour over books on witchcraft and rune magic, he would recognize these patterns when he spotted the familiar drawing on the yellowed pages of an old book he had spent hours tracing over it. 

_The first time Jaskier runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, he startles. The bard’s fingers are long and thick, but they take Geralt back to a time when gentle touches still soothed him. Jaskier is casual with Geralt’s body in a way even his mother never managed. Where people hesitate to move into his personal space, Jaskier doesn’t think twice as he washes the dirt and grime out of Geralt’s hair while the witcher is left grunting to cover up his bewilderment. Maybe it’s because Jaskier touches him like he has a right to do so that Geralt doesn’t shy away, like he knows Geralt won’t hurt him, like he’s not worried about hurting Geralt either._

_His heart pounds as he lets a man who calls himself a friend gently scrub a month’s worth of sweat and dirt from his skin and then dress him. Jaskier is careful, he is so careful as he settles the lapels over Geralt’s broad shoulders. The barely there sensation keeps Geralt grounded, even as he waits for panic and dread to rear up._

He surprises himself. Jaskier likes touching him. At first, Geralt thinks the bard is just tactile in nature. But after the bard throws his arm around Geralt’s shoulders while cheerfully humming a tune in the dim light of a tavern; Geralt pays attention. He notices. Jaskier flirts, he flirts like he was born to do it. He teases, and always has a wink and a compliment to offer anyone who catches his fancy. But with Geralt, the soft, intimate touches seem to come unbidden. It’s not calculated, or part of a charade. It feels like Jaskier thinks he’s known Geralt for decades from the moment they met. 

People often look confused by Jaskier’s easy friendship with Geralt. _Do you let just anyone rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?_ No, he didn’t. People avoid Geralt, sometimes, he manages to clear a room with his presence alone. Even the grimiest thief leaps out of his way. Geralt is untouchable, or so he assumed most of his life. But this doesn’t apply to Jaskier, the bard is always there, leaning against Geralt’s side as he grumbles about the patrons of the venue having no taste in declining an encore of his most exquisite composition. 

He slams his ale on the table and huffs into it. He is well on his way to being drunk, and Geralt will likely have to strap him to Roach’s back for the night and continue their journey on foot. Geralt sits stoic and imposing beside him while Jaskier whines. He never seems to mind Geralt’s unresponsiveness. 

_Jaskier rests his cheek against his knuckles and eyes Geralt. His cheeks are flushed red and all the minimal light in the room reflects from his gaze. Geralt is vaguely aware of the two drunkards arguing themselves into a fistfight over a lost bet. His vigilance is constant, but he finds himself watching Jaskier._

_“You are more expressive than you realize,” Jaskier tells him._

_Geralt bristles._

_Jaskier covers his mouth with his palm, but Geralt catches the smirk that curls along the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know if discontent is supposed to look quite as fetching as it does on you.” He says, his hand leaves his mouth, and he reaches out to brush his index finger over the furrow between Geralt’s brow._

_Geralt smacks his hand away and ignores how the little spot of contact burns._

Once Jaskier hangs over Roach’s back, manic even in his sleep, Geralt looks at him. Jaskier’s loose fist twitches around cool night time air. Geralt lifts his hand, then rethinks it and buries his fingers into Roach’s mane. Roach snorts into Geralt’s shoulder. 

“I know.” Geralt tells her. 

They continue. 

Geralt doesn’t like touching people. He tells himself this the first time a mother and child recoil away from his slitted amber eyes and silver hair. Geralt isn’t much older than the child, but the mother hisses at him and holds her hand up to shield her son from the abomination he had become. 

He finds the brothels less discerning. Once paid, the women there don’t care much whether he has two heads or one. He doesn’t remember the name of the first woman who had lain with him. His recollection is limited to her long blond hair and kind brown eyes. He remembers the names of the second and the third. 

“I haven’t seen you in a while, Witcher.” Maeve tells him, her dark curls drape prettily around her waist. Geralt raises a brow. 

She chuckles, flips onto her belly and kicks up a leg, “You’re a man of routine. They can’t tell,” she nods towards the small, mist covered window located above a broken dresser. “But we can, you don’t like unfamiliar faces, places. Don’t like being stared at.” She angles her head towards him, her eyes gleam with intuition, “You find someone, then? Someone familiar?” 

Geralt swallows and turns his head away. He refuses to respond to that and she laughs and laughs like it’s written on his face. 

He travels, Jaskier travels with him. The bard likes to sing, his voice isn’t anything of note. Geralt will never admit that he likes listening to it. Jaskier’s songs convey the bard’s feelings in a way his words never seem to. His conversation with women is always honey sweet and charming. 

He wonders sometimes, if it’s real. The bard is always cheerful, always has a tender word for Geralt. Soft looks aren’t uncommon from underneath those thick, dark lashes. Jaskier’s soul burns warm, and Geralt waits for the trick, for the spell to unravel. Jaskier grins at him cheekily when he asks him about it. He looks surprised. Well, it’s not often Geralt shows an obvious interest in him. 

Geralt watches him as they flit from town to town. Jaskier enjoys people, his steps are lighter when performing for a crowd. Geralt, heavily cloaked, hides amongst the throng as Jaskier works for his coin. Jaskier’s ocean blue jacket is unbuttoned at the collar, pale skin with a dark thatch of hair is visible between the parted garment. Geralt looks down, and then away. 

Jaskier has seen every inch of his body, but somehow those vulnerable few inches of the bard’s skin make him uncomfortable. He adjusts his cloak so it covers more of his face. Jaskier seems to sense the shift in his attention, his sharp eyes land on Geralt even as he continues with his song. 

_Geralt watches, as Jaskier’s song slows down, his bright eyes light up with mischief and then he leaps into the crowd. People laugh and cheer as Jaskier’s merry tune picks up pace once more. Some join the bard in a little dance. Jaskier laughs, and the joy transcends the space. Geralt can’t stop watching now if he wants to, so he keeps his eyes on the bard until Jaskier steps in front of him. Jaskier’s clear voice keeps the song going, but he reaches out and gently caresses the small strip of Geralt’s wrist that’s visible._

_Jaskier’s hands are lovely. They are masculine, and the shape of his fingers against Geralt’s wrist is graceful._

_‘Watch me.’ His challenging gaze says._

_The message is received._

_He disappears back into the crowd, and Geralt is left once more nursing the storm of emotion that swells up within him._

Geralt digs his sword into the manticore’s back. Coagulated back blood coats the blade as he slices it out of the monster’s body. It falls onto the swampy ground with a loud thump. He gets to work cutting out its heart. He might be able to sell it to an apothecary for some extra coin. 

Jaskier is with him so he might even be able to receive the price it’s worth. The bard is a surprisingly good haggler, he makes Geralt loom behind him as he spins stories about how much trouble they went to procure their wares, how rare a find it was, how if it weren’t for a Witcher visiting these parts they’d never be able to get their hands on such items. 

They have a long way to go before they reach Nilfgaard, Geralt skins the beast and takes what he needs from it. When he stands there is a sharp twinge at his side. He palms it and his hand comes away coated in blood. He’s had much worse before, so Geralt just wipes his hand on his pants and hefting the bag of spoils onto his back he makes his way back to the camp he had set up with Jaskier.

Roach trots up to him when he gets back and he headbutts her gently. Jaskier delicately sniffs the air and wrinkles his nose in distaste when Geralt steps closer. “Are you alright?” He asks and his disgust morphs into concern as he gets another waft of Geralt’s scent. 

One day, Geralt will have to ask him. Jaskier isn’t human, he doesn’t know what the bard is, but as the years pass, Jaskier remains the same. His senses are heightened far beyond a regular human’s as well. The light from the campfire reflects from his pale eyes adding a molten hue to their cool depths. He looks ethereal like this, like he may belong to the night time swamp, a water nymph or maybe a siren. 

Geralt sets down his burden, and Jaskier comes around the fire to fuss over him. “I should have expected no less, really. Just getting some firewood, he says. It’ll take me a minute, he says. Stay put, Jaskier, he says.” As Jaskier grumbles, he tugs at Geralt’s clothes. One by one the layers come off until all that’s left is the remains of his undershirt. Jaskier’s hands freeze, his palms hover around the wound, fingers twitching like he can magic away the ailment. 

_The moonlight bathes them in a silvery trance; Jaskier is almost as tall as he is, which is a feat considering that Geralt’s stature is a result of the grasses. Maybe, he thinks, if he hadn’t gone through the trials, Jaskier would tower over him instead. Jaskier looks up at him, his eyes are dark as he scans Geralt’s features, searching. They are so close, another step and Jaskier would be pressed up against him._

_But then, Jaskier steps back and the moment is lost. “We don’t have anything for you to lay upon so the ground will have to do.” He says, sounding matter of fact and cheerful again. The moment that passed between them was just another fleeting occurrence amongst many. Geralt finds a spot where the earth is loose and soft and lays down on it. Jaskier disappears into the foliage and returns a moment later humming under his breath. “It’s been a while since I had to do this so you’ll have to forgive me if my memory is a little rusty. Should do the trick, though. We’ll have you good as new by morning.”_

_With that optimism, he grinds the herbs he had found into paste with a slate of rock and some wood and then scoops the goop up into a cradle of his fingers. He doesn’t hesitate now as he reaches out and pulls Geralt’s shirt away from his injury._

_“If I didn’t know any better I’d call you a masochist.” He mutters under his breath as his fingers deftly apply the ointment onto the wound. The mixture stings and Geralt’s muscles flinch. Jaskier presses his free hand on his abdominals to soothe him, his long fingers span the breadth of Geralt’s stomach._

_Geralt’s breath hitches and Jaskier’s sharp ears catch the sound. “Oh you can kill that giant beast with one hit but you can’t handle some ground up leaves?” He teases, and Geralt glowers at him. Jaskier falls uncharacteristically silent then, and Geralt feels confused. Jaskier has never taken any of his posturing seriously before now._

_“What’s it like?” Jaskier asks him._

_Geralt cocks his head to the side._

_Jaskier gestures to the bag of spoils Geralt had dropped by the fire. “Hunting monsters.”_

_Geralt shrugs, “It’s what I must do.”_

_Jaskier’s ministrations slow, fingers sliding against warm flesh. “Do you enjoy it?” He asks._

_Geralt, for probably the first time in a very long time, laughs. Jaskier watches him quietly as he does, eyes drinking in the sight. After a moment, Geralt feels awkward but he pushes against it with a feral grin, “Which answer would better suit your next song?” He asks. Humor isn’t his strong suit, he wonders if there was something extra mixed into the herbs Jaskier used that he would even attempt it._

_But Jaskier straightens up, and he is earnest in the way he cups Geralt’s shoulder. His clothing has always been flashy, but with their travels the cloth has gotten dirty and the original color is hard to make out. Geralt doesn’t know why he notices this now._

_Jaskier looks him in the eye when he answers. “The truth.” He says. “A hero doesn’t need to lie about his deeds.”_

_Geralt wants to laugh again. A hero. Even Visenna knew she was not abandoning him to be a hero. Renfri was a hero, he thinks. And even Jaskier, who bravely follows a monster hunter, no, a monster around everyday looking for a song to sing, is a hero. They all bravely live for their own stories, Geralt can care less what happens to him. He often wonders if his life would even count amongst the living._

_Geralt is no hero. He isn’t even interesting enough to be the villain. He is just, Geralt of Rivia, The witcher._

_“There is nothing just about that.” Jaskier says, eyes soft. Geralt didn’t realize he had spoken out loud._

_Jaskier stays awake by his side that night, strumming a soft tune until the first rays of the sun shine over the horizon._

When Geralt was a young boy who was still learning his way with a sword, he was isolated away. Witcher children were surprisingly high commodities. Geralt is soft, even after the difficulties wrought upon him, his heart remains gentle. He acknowledges this vulnerability but he also hates it with a passion. He misses Renfri. She saw through him like very few other people managed to. 

Geralt is grooming Roach when he notices him, the little boy standing a few feet away, watching him. Geralt doesn’t react, children are often fascinated by him. Jaskier is the most tenacious, but he isn’t the only one who likes regaling the tales of Geralt of Rivia. 

The attention of a child isn’t of much consequence compared to that of an adult, so Geralt doesn’t mind it. With each stroke of the hard brush along Roach’s flank the child inches closer. Geralt dumps the brush into the pail once he’s done with it and then stands. 

He looks down, and the child is standing next to him, looking up at him with curious eyes. His clothes are dirty in a way only children seem to manage. His face is clean, someone must have wiped it for him. 

“Can I touch your hair?” He asks. 

It takes all he has not to stiffen up. 

“No.” He replies, and then turns around and walks away to return the borrowed pail and brush assuming that’s the end of that. 

He should have known better, the child trails after him. From the corner of his eye Geralt notes that he wears the beginnings of a pout. Stubborn child. 

“Only a little,” the kid persists. 

Geralt turns swiftly, hoping he can intimidate the child away. That’s when he notices the slightly skewed hat the child wears, pulled tightly down his ears, twin flaps tied into a haphazard, but tight knot below his chin. Geralt narrows his eyes, and then sighs. 

“Fine.” He hears himself conceding. “Only a little.” He warns, but it falls to deaf ears as the child steps forward eagerly. 

“I’m Stel, son of Stev.” He introduces himself, reaching out. 

Geralt grunts, and then crouches before the kid so he can thread his tiny fingers through Geralt’s hair. The boy is gentle, he strokes Geralt’s head like one would a stray cat. 

“You’re the Witcher.” He says. 

“Yes.” Geralt replies, even though it wasn’t really a question. 

Stel leans closer and then whispers, “My mother had white hair.” Then he furtively looks up at Geralt. 

Geralt inclines his head. 

He was probably around the same age as this child when he travelled around with Viscenna. The child’s mother could have been a Druid or an Elf or something else. Neither options yielded a positive outcome. 

Jaskier spills out of the shop beside them, arms laden with his various purchases. For someone who travels lighter than Geralt, Jaskier is always purchasing some trinket or the other from the villages they pass through. 

Geralt distances himself from the child, but it is too late as Jaskier’s eyes lit up with delight as he takes in the scene in front of him with ill-concealed surprise. 

“My, my. I leave you alone for a minute and you’ve already managed to replace me.” Jaskier says, mock-offended. “And here I thought I was the only one who was allowed to pet you.” He teases. 

His face is soft, and Geralt can’t bear to look at him, so he turns to the child instead. “Return to your family.” He orders, and then all but clambers onto Roach’s back and makes a quick retreat. He ignores the, “Bye, Witcher! Bye!” Stel shouts, waving enthusiastically and Jaskier’s laughter. 

_Geralt wanders until he finds a tavern. The suspicious glares help him feel less vulnerable. He places a coin on the counter and the barkeep slides a mug of ale towards him. Jaskier buffs in exaggerated breaths of air as he slides into the stool beside him, dramatically splaying himself over the counter. The barkeep shoots him a withering look, but he dares not approach the Witcher’s companion._

_“You didn’t have to run away, you know.” Jaskier tells him._

_“I didn’t run away.” Geralt denies, “I don’t have time for the whims of children.”_

_Jaskier chuckles, “I bet you were an adorable child.”_

_“I was a novice.”_

_Jaskier clicks his throat and gives Geralt an indecipherable look. “Geralt of Rivia, who kissed you as a child, who loved you as a boy?” Jaskier hums, he leans into Geralt’s space easily breaking past all the barriers Geralt draws around himself and tucks some of Geralt’s hair behind his ear._

_Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hand, glares at him and lets go of it roughly, he’s not sure what the expression on his face emotes as Jaskier looks at him. Even with all the people staring at him, he doesn’t think he’s ever had someone look at him as much as Jaskier does._

_Jaskier continues to sing his song as Geralt accepts another job. He sings it after Geralt washes the blood of his kill off his hands, he sings it as they build a camp and settle down for the night._

Jaskier’s mouth is bruised. His most recent lover turned out to be another married woman. He keeps running his tongue over the welt that swells his lower lip and it distracts Geralt. 

Geralt doesn’t know when he begins expecting Jaskier’s presence as a part of his travels, at some point Jaskier becomes a fixture over his shoulder, offering tidbits of gossip and his particular brand of sharp insight. 

Jaskier is always bright, always easygoing. So Geralt doesn’t expect it when Jaskier looks up from where he’s seated on a small boulder strumming his lute, and says, “Why do you never ask me?” 

“About?” Geralt questions, grilling a couple of skewers of fish over the fire. 

“About myself, you never ask.” 

Geralt raises a brow, “Do you want me to?” 

Jaskier swings his legs around so he’s facing Geralt, “You’ve never really questioned me. I’ve been thinking about it, and you hate having people poke their nose into your business. So it’s a little odd that you haven’t asked me yet.” 

_You aren’t people._ Geralt swallows back that instinctive reply, and instead, he says, “Is there something you want to tell me?” 

Jaskier pouts, much in the same way Stel had and leans forward, “Everyone is always at least a little curious about why I don’t age. Aren’t you? I could be some type of gruesome creature just disguised as a human.” 

Geralt snorts, and Jaskier shakes out his dark curls, “I’m serious, is it because you’ve already made your assumptions?”

Geralt watches him, catches those earnest eyes, then he resumes cooking their dinner. “It’s because I don’t care.” He says. It’s not entirely true, but it’s not untrue. 

Jaskier looks hurt by this admission, so Geralt continues, “You could be a demon, a vampire, an elf, or a runt of an ogre- you’re still Jaskier. You’ll still follow me around when I tell you not to.” 

Jaskier laughs, a light sound. “And you’re still Geralt.” He says, unbearably fond.

Geralt will blame the flush in both their cheeks on the campfire, even if Jaskier is too far away for it to have any effect. He lies down on the soft ground and pretends to fall asleep. 

They continue to travel, Geralt picking up odd jobs to feed himself and Roach. She’ll need a new saddle soon, though he rarely uses the one she’s been equipped with, preferring to walk beside her. The Bard however often gets into scruples that lead to Geralt hefting him into roaches back as he groans with the exaggerated theatrics he thrives on. 

Roach doesn’t mind the extra weight, and Jaskier always manages to procure her a snack for her troubles. Sometimes Jaskier will lay on Roach’s back and talk to her about different things. The weather, the last monster they hunted, or a story about his last conquest. 

It’s startling to realize, but they are the two constants in his life. Geralt shies away from the burst of warmth that spreads from his chest to his toes when it first strikes him. He can’t prevent the choked sound that escapes him however, and he resolutely looks away when Jaskier shoots him a questioning look. 

_Maybe that’s not true, maybe this isn’t the first time he’s realized it. At some point he’s started to feel the connection that tethers him to Jaskier, as if every time the bard brushes his fingers over Geralt’s shoulders or teasingly nudges his elbow into Geralt’s side, he’s making a claim that strengthens their bond. He wonders what his mother would make of Jaskier._

_He imagines the three of them traveling together, that Jaskier would seamlessly pull Visenna into conversation, asking her to regale him with stories of Geralt’s childhood. He knows that this would in part be for Geralt himself, because Jaskier knows him well enough to know Geralt would never ask._

_It aches. How much he sometimes wishes he were a different person, a person who could have this. A person who could walk between them and maybe rest his palm on Jaskier’s shoulder. He would never be as bold as this person, but it is a fantasy, and he sets down the mantle of Witcher for a moment and counts the number of strides it would take to reach Jaskier’s side._

_Visenna would look at him knowingly, because there was never a moment when his mother did not know exactly what her son was thinking. How needy Geralt could be._

_Instead, the vision changes, Jaskier smiles at him bright as a clear sky and he’s walking towards Geralt, reaching out and wrapping his fingers around Geralt’s bicep as he opens his mouth to say something that’s probably wicked and meant to embarrass the Witcher._

_There is a gentle shake of his arm, and Geralt realizes that it’s not his vision, but Jaskier is here, in front of him, pulling Geralt out of his musings._

—-

They receive news about a beast tormenting a village near the Dmell mountains. When they arrive the village head tells Geralt that the village will offer him all their coin if he can manage to get rid of the beast. It stole children in the dead of the night, hunting them in the dark. 

“We don’t let them out anymore,” he tells Geralt, “but everyone is terrified to go into the mountains now.” 

Geralt ties Roach to a post and takes his sword with him. Jaskier whistles as they journey deeper into the mountains, there is a light skip to his step. He’s been in a better mood recently, and Geralt cannot parse out the reason for it. 

As they move up in altitude it gets harder to breathe, it doesn’t affect Geralt as much, his transformed body is immune to harsh conditions. But he chances a glance towards Jaskier who is twirling a twig between his long fingers. His song remains cheerful, so Geralt continues without a pause. 

The air is foggy, and Geralt peers ahead to parse out his location. He keeps on hand on the hilt of his sword as he expands his senses. His surroundings are suspiciously still, it makes the crunch of his boot on the soil beneath his feet sound loud and sharp. 

Something is amiss, and Geralt freezes as he realizes what it is. He can’t hear the sound of Jaskier’s heavy breathing anymore. Frantically he swings around and calls out, “Jaskier?” 

There is no response and panicked, Geralt curses out an emphatic, _“Fuck.”_


	2. Centimeter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah thank you SO MUCH to everyone who left all those wonderful comments on the first chapter. I will be replying to all of them once I’ve posted this. Life has been weird these past few months, and it got hard to cope, but I’ve been working on this fic and I hope you guys like the update. I’m sorry about any errors if you let me know I’ll fix them! Thank you once again for all the love, it’s helping me finish this fic.
> 
> I have a Spotify playlist for this fic for anyone who’d like one: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4girK7eUKj7Jg34nM2wGMj?si=oq-CaKJvTdC78SivNWTo9w

_Jaskier, sitting by the lake while Geralt soaks his body. The bard insists that they wash regularly even though Geralt doesn’t mind the stench. He offers to wash Geralt’s back for him. Geralt clenches his palms into fists under the water and resolutely turns away. His muscles tense when he hears Jaskier laugh, there’s a delicate splash in the water as Jaskier skims his fingers through it. “It’s okay to enjoy things,” he says, voice soft and carefree, like his words haven’t gutted Geralt._

_Geralt turns around sharply, he needs to get out of here, now. But Jaskier can read him better than anyone else, and he stands before Geralt by the water’s edge with a dry cloth in his hands. He holds it out to Geralt and their eyes meet. Geralt reaches, and hesitates, Jaskier looks down at his hand, suspended inches away. There’s an indescribable look on his face as he closes the gap, takes Geralt’s hand into his own and presses the cloth into it. “It’s okay to want things.” Jaskier murmurs as he looks at Geralt from beneath his lashes._

_Geralt takes in a shuddering breath, and tells himself he’s not running away when he stalks off._

Jaskier is nowhere to be found and Geralt’s agitation climbs out of his throat so cold fury can settle there instead. He briskly walks through the fog, his senses alert. He’s drawn his sword and remains vigilant. He wonders if the universe thinks he’s stupid, or enjoys taking a shot at him where it hurts. Jaskier gets into trouble often, and each time, it feels like something very _vital_ is missing. His thoughts are a mess, this is far from the absolute control the school had tried to impart onto him. 

He takes a breath, slow, in through his nostrils and out through his mouth. If he can’t see Jaskier, he’ll just have to scent him. He knows the bard’s scent well, Jaskier smells like a mix of everything he touches, his lute, a jar of ale, the ground he slept on, he smells like Roach, he smells like the smoke from their last campfire. 

He smells like Geralt. It’s familiar, so familiar and Geralt lets his nose guide the gentle trail. 

Yes, Geralt hates Jaskier’s company, hates how the bard can write a song that expresses Geralt’s feelings better than he ever could, he hates that no matter how cruel the words he spits in the bard’s direction are, his loyalty never wavers. He hates that Jaskier is never scared of him. He is dark-haired, grey eyed, mischievous mouthed, and sometimes Geralt hates him so much. 

And yet, for all the vulnerabilities Geralt feels when Jaskier is with him, inquiring about all the things Geralt would rather wipe from his memories, he hates how lost he feels right now even more. He knows what to do, he knows his next move, he knows that he’ll be able to rescue Jaskier. And yet. His hate is not hate at all. It’s an emotion that threads the fine line. 

He finds a cave; the innards stink with vengeance, but the trail of Jaskier’s scent strengths within. He stalks his way in, his eyes adjusting to the dark. In a way the scene before him is innocuous compared to the storm of emotions brewing hot beneath his skin. He finds Jaskier unconscious with a Basilisk hovering over him. Geralt stops moving and assesses the situation. The entrance behind him is the only visible exit, it’s hard to make out what else is in the cave but the direction of the wind against his skin agrees with the assessment. He glances, once more, towards Jaskier’s prone form. He’s lucky the creature decided, for whatever reason, to delay killing the bard. 

His plan is simple, but it’ll get the job done and that’s all that matters. He clangs his sword against the rocks to catch the monster’s attention and when it rears its ugly head towards his direction, he backs out of the cave luring it out into the open and away from Jaskier.

Once it exits the cave, he casts _igni_ and watches the basilisk scream as the flames burn it to embers. The spellwork reminds him of his mother, so he lets it last for a moment longer than needed. He walks back to the cave and Jaskier is still lying unnaturally still on the wet ground. Geralt sighs and then he crouches down and checks if the bard is alright. Nothing seems amiss, so Geralt wraps his arm around Jaskier’s midriff and heaves the man onto his shoulder. Jaskier is heavier than he looks, solid. Geralt is certain he can take care of himself, but Jaskier seems to enjoy relying on the Witcher to save him. Geralt wonders if he’s a fool for rushing around to the tune of some bard’s whims. 

_But Jaskier is not people._

He wonders if thinking he had a choice was where he first went wrong. He treks the way back to the town. Roach wears an air of resignation as Geralt straps Jaskier onto her back. “Just to the closest inn.” He pats her side, takes her reins in hand and they walk through the town together. 

Jaskier wakes up in a dusty room with Geralt sitting on a stool by the window. He’d gotten the cheapest room he could find. Geralt doesn’t say anything as Jaskier sits up. He can feel the bard’s eyes on him but Jaskier doesn’t engage him in conversation. Instead, the silence grows as Jaskier picks up the bowl of rice porridge Geralt left out for him. Geralt listens to the sound of the spoon scraping against the bowl as Jaskier eats. 

The moon is half full, and Geralt lets his eyes fall shut. Jaskier hums a song between mouthfuls of food. It’s a familiar one. Once he’s done eating, words accompany the melody, 

_Geralt of Rivia,_

_who kissed you as a child,_

_who loved you as a boy?_

_Butcher of Blaviken,_

_Who will soothe your pain,_

_Who will you let remain._

_who will come back home,_

_to Geralt of Rivia?_

Geralt keeps his expression carefully contained as Jaskier’s song tapers out. He gets up and crosses the room to take the now empty bowl from Jaskier. “Sleep,” he tells the bard, swallowing down the tight knot in his throat. “We’ll leave by sunrise.” 

Jaskier’s eyes are so soft, so full of understanding that Geralt can’t bear to look at him. He’ll never comprehend what someone like Jaskier, someone who is filled with affection and honesty, is doing here with Geralt. There’s nothing but pain and death in Geralt’s future. It’s why he refuses to think about the child who belongs to him as well. 

“I’ll be here.” Jaskier says as Geralt shuts the door behind him. 

The next morning they cross paths with Yennefer. She’s a rare sight and Geralt picks an argument with her immediately. It’s a ritual for them now, taking pleasure in their clashing personalities. She tells them about how she’s trying to trick the young Lord she’s traveling with into acquiescing his family heirloom to her. When Geralt asks her what it does, she tells him, “I’m not sure as yet, but that’s the point of this trip I suppose. He’s bound to use it at some point.” 

He grins. Yennefer’s charm lay in her brave soul. Meeting her feels serendipitous now. She is not interested in his life, she doesn’t look at him like he is someone important, her closed off personality mirrors his own. She looks between him and Jaskier and raises her brows. “Should I ask?” She questions. Geralt looks away immediately. His actions wouldn’t stop Yennefer of Vengaberg from doing exactly as she wanted to. 

He recognizes something older in her now. Her eyes are a little tired. She holds herself tall however, her countenance untouched as ever. Her eyes flash dark blue and plum when she cocks her head to the side and hums, “I thought you’d just fuck him out of your system by now.” 

Geralt’s eyes widen, his gaze snaps towards where Jaskier is feeding Roach a snack a few feet away under the shade of a thick-barked tree. He scowls at Yennefer, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Yennefer snorts, “As if. You’re not as hard to read as you think, Witcher. You should just go for it, that worked for us, remember.” She clicks her tongue and considers her words, “Well, maybe not. But it’s not like you to show restraint. What are you so scared of?”

Geralt flinches. Jaskier is singing one of his inane songs again as he braids a section of Roach’s mane. It’s a miracle his horse is patient with Jaskier. Jaskier is too volatile a presence in his life. Geralt takes more risks since he met Jaskier, it wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that Jaskier changed his life. Not that he would ever admit as much to the bard. Just the thought of Jaskier’s reaction to that makes Geralt want to walk away and never look back again. 

_What are you so scared of?_

_He hasn’t realized as yet. Realized who I am, what I am. When he knows, he will leave. He will leave._

“A Witcher travels alone.” He says, instead. 

Yennefer rolls her eyes at him, “I know one that doesn’t.” 

He’s saved from having to reply as Jaskier rejoins them. He warily looks at Yennefer and steps closer towards Geralt. “Will the lady be traveling with us?” He is polite, but Geralt catches the way his eyebrows twitch. 

Yennefer grins at him, all teeth, “I have my own matters to attend to.” She picks up the single moleskin pack she brought with her and nods towards the both of them. “I hope we don’t cross paths again too soon,” she tells them. 

“Likewise.” Jaskier mutters under his breath. 

As soon as Yennefer disappears around the bend in the trail, Jaskier turns towards Geralt and gives him a suspicious look. “That woman spells trouble,” he grumbles. Geralt knows Jaskier’s worry stems from his respect towards Yennefer’s renown and authority as a sorceress as well as his own personal experience. “We should get going too.” He tells Jaskier, ignoring his whining about how dangerous ‘canoodling with a sorceress’ was and ‘for a Witcher, your perception when it comes to these things is blasphemous, Geralt.’ 

Geralt sighs. They continue on their journey. 

_“What was it like?” Jaskier asks him. He’s looking up at the sun through the cradle of his fingers, the refracted rays scatter across his cheekbones._

_He’s greeted with silence._

_Jaskier doesn’t ask him again, he just tilts his head to look at Geralt. The sweep of his lashes are gentle, and he waits._

_Geralt's words are stilted. He hadn’t been a loquacious child. He had been content with listening to Visenna’s stories, asking her questions, listening to her paint stories of the life she lived before she had him. Visenna always had many stories, she was a bit of a fabulist with her retellings._

_He looks at Jaskier, who looks deceptively nonchalant about his question. Careful Jaskier, who always manages to lay Geralt bare. Geralt swallows, he thinks about where to start, what he could manage to reveal. He doesn’t remember when he had started to accept the inevitability of this moment. When he had stopped avoiding Jaskier’s advances. Well, he thinks, a little desperately, no one had to know._

_So he tells him, about Visenna, about how they rarely settled down. About his few memories of the places they had lingered in. Jaskier looks soft, his eyes, his mouth and his gestures still in a rare calm as Geralt talks in bits and pieces. His story has no beginning or end. He stalls, it’s not the answer to Jaskier’s question, but the bard doesn’t seem to mind Geralt's roundabout answer._

_It hurt, he thinks, clutching Roach’s reins._

_It hurts._

_He doesn’t say it, eventually his words taper off and they continue to walk._

_“They used to think I was an elf.” Jaskier tells him. “Still do sometimes, I think. People enjoy drawing conclusions about things they don’t understand.” His brows are drawn together, and a shadow falls over his features._

_Just for a moment, before he blinks it away._

_There’s a lot to think about, a lot to feel, a lot to run away from. Always more and more to run away from everyday._

Geralt receives another offer to defeat an infamous curse terrorizing a town in exchange for some coin. Jaskier looks a little more restless, and that’s how Geralt knows it’s time. Jaskier becomes clingier first, the gentle touches he never fails to bestow upon Geralt increase. He grasps Geralt’s arm when they trudge back into town with a beast slung across Geralt’s shoulder. And then he grows silent, he watches Geralt brood in a corner of the pub. It makes Geralt feel restless as he waits. 

When Jaskier says that he’s going to make a little trip to Cintra, Geralt is not surprised. He briskly nods, and Jaskier looks a little torn by his own decision. When they separate he doesn’t bother to convince himself that Jaskier’s absence will not be felt. Jaskier grins at him, it’s wild, carefree, and completely false. “You’ll be alright, Geralt. We’ll see each other again, soon.” 

“If I’m unlucky enough,” Geralt grunts and it makes Jaskier laugh. Jaskier pauses, and Geralt looks at him, confused. He darts in, too quick for Geralt to react, and wraps his arms around Geralt’s broad shoulders. “Be well, Witcher.” He says. 

Jaskier usually calls him by name. It is more familiar than it has any right to be. And yet, the title ‘witcher’ always sounds like an echo of something more when Jaskier says it. Like there are things he wants to tell Geralt, but holds himself back from letting the words spill out. 

It frightens Geralt, and it makes him uncomfortable to admit this. Geralt is old, older than his body permits him to be. He doesn’t know if he’s older than Jaskier, sometimes he feels there could be decades separating them, and sometimes, quietly, within the recesses of his mind, he thinks they might have been born to orbit each other. 

His hands dangle by his side, he is not nearly as brave as Jaskier, but his heart thunders in his chest as Jaskier holds him closer, like he might try to bury himself within Geralt. He sighs softly, and then as quickly as he had come close, he steps back. His eyes glisten, and he turns away from Geralt and towards Roach. “You’ll have to take care of him, Roach.” Roach shakes her head, and it’s anyone’s guess what that response means. 

They go their own ways after that. Geralt continues to follow the scent of blood, and tries to ignore the emptiness that grows with each passing day. He feels brittle boned, feels his soul decaying as his time is consumed by more death. He thinks about Jaskier’s song, he doesn’t know how to deal with the emotions that flay him open, so he buries it within himself. 

The weather warms and then cools once again. Geralt finds his ears drawn towards every song hummed by a deep voice, sometimes the tune will be a familiar one sung by the wrong voice. But it lets Geralt close his eyes for a moment, just to imagine. He dries and salts some of the meat he buys and then gnaws on it as his nights grow sleepless. 

He is waiting, he realizes, a little helplessly. He knows where Jaskier is, knows the route he will likely take. He knows why Jaskier has gone to Cintra as well. He cares more about Geralt’s business than Gerat himself ever will. He could go as well, it didn’t have to mean anything. He finds himself rooted, however. 

He catches himself brushing his own fingers along the soft insides of his wrists one night. The blue of his veins are illuminated by firelight as Geralt strokes them. It’s not the same, he knows. When he touches himself he cannot be anything more than matter of fact. Even his rough, calloused fingers remind him of what he is.

Jaskier’s touches are different. Each stroke is delicate, like he’s using his fingers to paint Geralt’s flesh. Geralt almost falls into the fantasy of it, almost lets himself be held by a memory. He feels lost. Admitting that Jaskier is a friend is more than he knows what to do with, but his feelings overfill and spill over, and Geralt wishes he could wipe them away, wishes he could collect each drop and hide. 

Jaskier’s ghost follows him. Geralt knows he’s not here, but the touches remain. He finds his thoughts drifting, remembering each one. He is embarrassed by the yearning in his wait. He cleans the blood off of his sword only to stain it once more. He returns to the brothels, hoping to quieten his thoughts. He remembers Jaskier telling him, _“It’s okay to want things.”_ And maybe it is, for people who aren’t Geralt. 

When Jaskier returns, falling into place beside Geralt, beginning mid conversation like he never left, Geralt pretends he wasn’t waiting. Jaskier passes on a few trinkets, describing each and the story of how he managed to acquire them in great detail. Geralt raises a brow at the small bounty, “A time well wasted then?” 

Jaskier sputters and then whines, “Not all of us have grand things to do as the great Witcher does. Tell me Geralt,” he says, “what have you been up to in my absence. I’ll bet you have a story to share.” 

Geralt hastens his steps, “I don’t.”

“Now, that can’t be true. I heard some rumors, there was a banshee involved I think. Did you really hunt a banshee, Geralt?!” Jaskier eagerly asks, stepping into Geralt’s space. 

Geralt shrugs, “I could hear her all the way from Temeria.” He stuffs Jaskier’s wares into a pouch on Roach’s back. “She needed a good night’s sleep, I suppose.” 

Jaskier snorts. “Did you just make a joke Geralt? One that wasn’t at my expense? I leave you to your own devices for a few months and this is the result?” He teases. 

“I guess you’ll have to leave more to find out.” Geralt says, and he can’t quite keep the sharpness from his tone.

Jaskier slides up beside him and nudges his shoulder into Geralt’s, “You won’t be getting rid of me that easily, Geralt.” He tells him, his face is open and his voice affectionate. 

_Won’t I?_

“Too bad.” He says instead, and the lie sits heavy on his tongue. 

Jaskier laughs. He hums and looks up at the sky, it’s a rare sunny day, he glances towards Geralt and the Witcher braces himself. That’s not a look that bodes well. 

“So,” Jaskier starts, “you were in Temeria.” 

Geralt stills, realizing his slip. “I was.” 

“Not too far from Cintra, then.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs. “You just got here, leave it.” 

But Jaskier would not be Jaskier if he did. “You must have heard about what’s brewing in Cintra. The child-“ 

_“Is better off without me!”_

Jaskier flinches at Geralt’s raised voice. The silence between them stretches for a moment. 

“Well,” Jaskier primly comments, “I guess it’s not just the banshee who needed a nap.” 

“Oh fuck off.” Geralt grumbles, but it has none of the heat from before. Roach butts her head into Geralt’s shoulder in reprimand. 

“We both know you’d be lonely without me. Even if you won’t admit it.” Jaskier pats his shoulder and Geralt knows he should shake off the touch. But it’s been a while, and his body melts under it instead. 

Jaskier is watching him, so Geralt turns his head away. It doesn’t hide the vulnerability in the trembling lines of his body. “Oh Geralt,” Jaskier breathes out, and then drags his palm down from Geralt’s shoulder to his elbow. 

Jaskier smiles, _“I missed you too.”_

They resume their travels and Geralt relearns what it’s like to be someone who is willingly touched. _I was made for pain,_ he reminds himself. He falls into their routine anyway, into fleeting touches and easy banter. 

He fights ghouls this time. Jaskier steps over their dismembered remains as they make their way up the infested mansion. “It would be stately, if it weren’t for the unwelcome guests. What do you think, Geralt?” 

“I think you should watch out because ghoul blood doesn’t wash out.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, sounding both disgusted and curious. “Isn’t it just human blood?” He asks. He sticks closer to Geralt, and Geralt doesn’t bother telling him that’s not a good idea if he wants to remain clean. 

“It’s cursed,” Geralt tells him, eyeing Jaskier when he decides to jump towards Geralt instead of away from him to escape being splattered by blood. 

Jaskier smirks at him, “What? We both know you’re going to end up shielding me.”

Geralt huffs, “You could have just stayed outside.” 

“And miss all this stunning action?” Jaskier asks, raising both his brows as Geralt slices off the head of another ghoul. 

Geralt looks at him, “What’s interesting about cursed dead bodies that eat each other?” 

“Oh Geralt, lovely Geralt,” Jaskier hums happily, “Imagine being a lonely baker's wife whose husband spends more time making love to a bottle of ale in the pub than with her.” 

Geralt snorts, “I’d rather not.”

“Exactly!” Jaskier exclaims as they take the stairs, “She doesn’t want to either, Geralt! She'd rather imagine herself as the buxom woman being courted by the beastly but dashing Witcher.” 

Geralt stops in his tracks, “What?” 

Jaskier pouts, “Have you not been following up on my stories? I’ve become quite popular since I started regaling the tales of The Witcher.” 

Geralt hastens his steps, certain that he doesn’t want to know more. “People love a good self insert, Geralt!” Jaskier calls out, and Geralt pretends that the fresh swarm of screaming ghouls deafens him. 

He makes sure to wait for Jaskier before he enters the attic, the cursed object that revived the dead is certain to be in here, and he knows Jaskier will enjoy the reveal. Jaskier isn’t too far behind, he steps over the scattered bodies and walks over. 

Geralt opens the door to the attic. There isn’t much to see inside at first glance. He steps inside cautiously, and when he’s certain that they won’t be surprised by a trap, he moves aside so Jaskier can enter as well. 

“Wow,” Jaskier comments, “And here I thought the ghouls were going to be the spookiest thing I saw today. These are dreadful.” 

Geralt looks at the dolls decorating every inch of the space. He supposes they are. “Don’t touch anything, it could be one of them.” 

Jaskier eyes him, “And will you be extending these safety measures to yourself as well?” 

Geralt shoots him a look. 

Jaskier raises his hands and returns the look with faux innocence, “Just a question.” ( _A valid one_ , he mutters to himself.) 

Jaskier’s worry is misplaced. Geralt has been cursed enough times now, and it won’t kill him. He tries not to think too hard about what it feels like to have someone who worries about him now. He keeps a careful eye on everything Jaskier touches, he doesn’t want the bard falling into trouble again. ( _Never wants to have Jaskier bleeding out in his arms again._ ) 

Geralt finds the cursed item, it’s an old doll with a missing eye. He wraps it in cloth and puts it in the first empty box he finds. They’ll have to burn it. They start a bonfire and burn the bodies as well. Jaskier stares at him over the bright orange flame. Geralt gets a little distracted by how the light reflects in Jaskier’s grey eyes. He’s handsome, Geralt already knows this. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about it now. 

He watches the play of shadows along Jaskier’s cheekbone, thinks about how his palm would fit there, the gentle scraping of Jaskier’s beard on his skin. Of all the things Geralt is not allowed, this is the most tempting. As if reading Geralt’s mind, Jaskier comes around to stand shoulder to shoulder with Geralt. “Just a bit cold.” 

He lets Jaskier take a nap on Roach’s back as they head out of town in the middle of the night. He keeps a hold on Roach’s saddle just in case. Jaskier’s hand hangs loose just inches from his own. Geralt tries to let himself get adjusted to these scant inches. His constant hyper-awareness towards Jaskier’s proximity needs to cease. Geralt never cares when people jump away from him when he walks through town, never cares that his commissioners take care not to touch him when they hand over his coin. At court a noble might put a hand over his shoulders, but it’s always in jest, _look, see how brave we are, touching the monstrous Witcher._

Jaskier has never touched Geralt in jest. His little touches are filled with meaning, each gesture a language of its own. Geralt has spent years learning what each one means, and he is still learning. Jaskier is the most open person he knows, but there is intricacy in his openness. Jaskier’s sleeping face is soft and Geralt is helpless to the fondness that aches inside him. 

_How long,_ he wonders. _How long until you learn better?_

There is no benefit to Jaskier spending his time with Geralt. Each day that passes however, makes Geralt think that Jaskier might never realize this. He stops himself from thinking about what that would mean. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier mumbles drowsily. 

“Hm?” 

“Why do you do it?” Jaskier asks. 

“Do what?” 

Jaskier pushes himself upright. They are close in height but like this Jaskier towers over him. “Why do you accept jobs even when they don’t pay you enough?” 

Geralt doesn’t know where this line of questioning is going to lead. “It’s not about the money,” he says. 

“What’s it about then?” Jaskier asks. Geralt has no reply to give him so he stays silent. He hears Jaskier huff and then warm fingers are sliding into Geralt’s hair. It surprises Geralt enough that he jerks back, but Jaskier’s fingers chase after him. “I thought you weren’t a hero,” he says, exasperated. 

“I’m not.” He replies. “It’s duty.” _It’s the only thing I can do in this forsaken world._

Jaskier must read something in Geralt’s expression, because he softens, rubbing his thumb along Geralt’s temple. It’s a mirror of what Geralt has imagined himself doing. Jaskier’s fingers are warm. Geralt is familiar with the feel of them on him now, he’s paid attention and memorized the sensation of each digit pressing on his skin leaving an imprint of light touches. 

Geralt closes his eyes and feels like he’s on the precipice of something. Just another little tap and he’ll fall to the other side. When he opens his eyes, his gaze is heated. It flusters Jaskier, he retreats, taking his gentle touches with him. 

He wonders when it started to feel inevitable. Despite his resistance, he finds himself wanting. Wanting something that’s just out of his reach. He swallows his fear, it chills him, a cold that burns when he looks at Jaskier. 

Jaskier remains silent until the sun begins to rise. When he finally speaks again, it’s with the morning rays setting his hair aglow, “It’s okay, Geralt. It’s okay.” 

_No, it’s not. It’s really not, but I cannot do anything about it._

Geralt’s fate is to die at the hands of some yet named beast. Maybe a fellow Witcher will mourn him, and another child will take his place. Now, however, he can see Jaskier mourning him. It would be more than Geralt deserves. He still doesn’t understand it, even after all these years. Doesn’t understand why Jaskier comes back, why he stays, why he never asks for more. 

Geralt grasps onto the fraying ends of his control. He clings onto them. They bloom in his chest, constructing him, and it is not until he feels like he cannot breathe that he relaxes. He thinks about how stupid it is, to feel jealous of the sun, of warm rays brightening grey eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” Geralt says. 

Jaskier’s head whips towards him, “What about?” He asks. 

_For everything that I am. For everything that I will be._

When Geralt doesn’t answer, Jaskier sighs. “Sometimes it’s so easy to read you, and sometimes I have no idea what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.” He leans forward and buries his face into Roach’s mane. His next words are soft and muffled but Geralt hears them anyway, “I don’t want you to be sorry, Geralt. I want you to be happy.” 

Geralt swallows, he doesn’t know how. All he knows is what the trials gave him, and everything that came after. He thinks he might have been happy with Visenna. But it was too long ago for him to remember as more than a concept. He remembers the excitement that burst in his chest whenever she would return from her trips with a story. He thinks he might have been happy in the few moments he had with Renfri too, but these moments were fleeting, and stolen from him before he was allowed to understand what they meant. 

He thinks about the child. Without a mother or father, but raised by an incredibly brave grandmother. His desire to know gets the better of him. “Do you think she’s happy?” He asks. 

“I don’t know,” Jaskier honestly replies. “I hope she is. She is yours, so I hope she is.” 

Geralt doesn’t bother to refute the claim. It would be futile to do so. They have a long journey ahead, so he tells Jaskier to sleep some more. “Maybe I’ll walk,” Jaskier says instead, slipping off Roach’s back. “Roach needs her rest too.” 

He whistles a tune as he walks beside Geralt. Geralt recognizes it as his song. The fog settles around them as their day progresses. When they find the next town to stop at, Jaskier flirts with a girl selling flowers and then rushes to Geralt when her broad shouldered husband threatens to chop off his tongue. Geralt bares his teeth at the man until he scurries off taking his wife with him. 

“So useful,” Jaskier coos, patting Geralt on the back. 

“Be more careful,” Geralt warns him. “The next one might be a witch, and there are perils I cannot save you from.” 

Jaskier gives him a lopsided smile. “I’m sure you’ll manage,” He says. 

“I should start charging you,” Geralt grumbles. 

“It’s too late for that now,” Jaskier laughs. 

“Is it?” 

Jaskier hesitates, he tilts his head to the side and asks, gently, “Isn't it?” 

  
  


——

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked the chapter let me know? I’d appreciate it <3 Things will get a little rocky in the next chapter before they get better. 
> 
> Kay’s art has been keeping me afloat with this fic. And I am so grateful for all of you. I kept rereading the comments while working on this fic. I can’t express how happy they made me.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry about any and all errors, if you catch anything let me know and I will edit it. I’ll be posting this fic in four chapters, this chapter is a tiny bit shorter than the others because I wanted to end it at a good point, BUT I’ll be updating this fic regularly till the 12th !!
> 
> Edit: 12/07/20  
> I wanted to work on the last two chapters so posting has been extended to the 19th.


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